Tunnel Rats in the Rew Development

Tunnel Rats in the Rew Development

“Tunnel rat” usually refers to soldiers during the Vietnam War—men who volunteered to crawl through the tight, dangerous underground tunnel systems built by the Viet Cong. But in our little corner of the world, the Rew Development, “tunnel rats” had a whole different meaning.

This story is about me and my sisters Janet and Lisa. Dana had not yet been born and she missed out on a lot of our childhood exploits. But me, Janet, and Lisa, we were weird kids. Adventurous, fearless, and always on the hunt for n ways to have fun. If there was a sinkhole near the sewage plant or a treehouse in the woods across from Valley View Baptist, you could bet we knew about it. And we’d probably already explored it.

The Rew was laced with a stormwater drainage system—pipes big enough for a scrawny kid to crawl through on hands and knees. The hardest part was getting into the storm drain in the first place. Most of the openings were only about eight inches high, so if you weren’t small, you weren’t getting in.

Me, Janet, Lisa, and another neighborhood kid, Terry Penny, used to shimmy into the storm drain at the corner of President Street and Montevallo Road. From there, we’d crawl all the way down to Cleveland Street, then take a turn and head another block to Robert E. Lee Street.

At the intersection of Cleveland and Robert E. Lee—right in front of the Sisson house—there was a chamber where pipes came in from three different directions. There was even a manhole overhead in case you needed to get out. That spot was just big enough for four small kids to sit comfortably in a circle—and that’s exactly what we did. Most of the time, we never went farther. Only once did I go past that, up to the cul-de-sac where the Uptain family lived. The pipe seemed narrower up there, and I didn’t want to risk getting stuck with no room to turn around. Crawling backward for a whole block didn’t sound like a good time.

One afternoon after school, the four of us made our usual crawl into the chamber in front of the Sisson house. James Sisson, Ronald Uptain, Gary Holder, and Paul Thomas were all out in the yard playing around. We sat in our little hideout listening to them for a while. Eventually, we got bored—and that’s when the bright idea hit us: we’d shout up at them.

We pushed up on the manhole cover, peeked out, and started hollering silly stuff before slamming the lid shut again. At first, the boys couldn’t figure out where the voices were coming from. But it didn’t take long before they narrowed it down. They ran over and tried to pull the cover off, but it was harder to lift from above than to push from below.

We didn’t stick around to see if they could manage it—we turned and started crawling back toward Montevallo Road, planning to head home via President Street. But it didn’t take long before those guys figured out where we were going, and they followed us along the road, probably just a few feet above our heads the whole way.

When we finally reached our exit, we tried to shimmy out—only to find all four of them waiting. We were afraid to come out, so we just crouched there in the dark, hoping they’d get bored and leave. They eventually did, but our troubles weren’t over yet.

The commotion had attracted the attention of a couple of local bullies. Every time one of us tried to squeeze out of the drain, they’d hurl rocks at us. Not huge ones—just big enough to sting. This went on for ten or fifteen minutes, until even the bullies got tired of the game.

We finally crawled out, dirty and sore, and made it home just in time for dinner. That was the last time we ever climbed into that storm drain. We took it off our list of cool places to explore.

Years later, I walked down to take a look at that drain. It looked impossibly small—like something only a squirrel could fit into. I could hardly believe we’d ever managed to crawl through it, let alone sit down there for hours laughing and yelling and plotting our next move.

Still, it’s one of my favorite memories from childhood.

The Bullies

 

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The Bullies

Kids are just weird. One day they’re your best friend, and two days later they’re chasing you down the street with a rock in their hand—only to be your buddy again by Friday. That pretty much sums up my experience growing up in the Rew Development.

When we first moved into our house, my sister Janet and I were thrilled to find a bunch of kids our age in the neighborhood. Within days, we were playing cars in the backyard, running through the woods across the street, and making fast friends. During daylight hours, life was good.

But things changed when the sun went down.

One night, while we were watching TV—probably something like Dragnet or Highway Patrol—my mom glanced out the window and let out a scream. There was something burning on the front porch. My dad rushed outside and stomped out the flames, only to discover the infamous prank: a flaming bag of dog poop.

The next day, I mentioned it to one of the neighborhood kids, confident they were behind it. They didn’t admit it—instead, they ripped a handful of chinaberries from a tree in their yard and started pelting me with them. Those berries were like little waxy marbles, and they hurt. For the next couple of days, I stayed inside, watching from the windows like a kid under siege.

Then, as if nothing had happened, one of the culprits knocked on our door and asked if I could come out and play. Just like that, I was back in the group.

That’s how it went for years. I’d be in one week, out the next. One minute we were exploring creeks, building treehouses, and playing in the yard; the next, I’d be running from rocks or getting chased on bikes—sometimes caught and roughed up by the two ringleaders while a small group laughed and jeered.

Some of those moments scarred me. Others shaped me. Three in particular are etched into my memory like granite.

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The White Dog Turd Incident

I was about twelve. Janet and I were playing in the front yard when two of the neighborhood bullies wandered over and started mouthing off. One knocked me to the ground and held me down, punching me in the face. The other picked up a sun-bleached, dried-out dog turd and shoved it into my mouth, holding my nose and mouth closed until I started choking.

That’s when my mother burst out of the house.

She yanked the kid off of me, only to be met by the bully’s mother storming over, yelling for her son to “knock him down again!” She repeated it every time I got up. It was the first time I ever saw my mom truly furious. She threatened to beat that woman senseless. Words flew like bullets, until everyone wore themselves out and went home.

And yet—within a week—I was back with that same group. It's hard to believe now, but I think I was just desperate for friends.

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The Swing

A few years later, my sisters Janet, Lisa, and I carved out a little haven at the creek where the overflow from Rowan’s Spring ran into the Little Cahaba River. We cleared brush, built a footbridge from scrap lumber, and strung up a massive rope swing from a tall limb that let us soar over the water. I even tied a wooden seat to the end of the rope. It was our playground, our sanctuary.

Then, one late-summer afternoon, a group of boys—led by one of the usual suspects—came stomping down the creek bank. They’d heard us laughing and playing and came to ruin it.

They threw our bridge into the water, claimed the rope swing as their own, and began hurling rocks at me as I swung out over the creek. I slowly climbed the rope to the limb above, out of their reach. I pulled the rope up with me so they couldn’t take it.

I stayed in that tree a long time, rocks and curses flying below me. I can’t remember how it ended—maybe they got bored, or maybe Janet ran home to get Dad. I like to think it was Dad who came storming down and scared them off.

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The Creek

The third memory is the most painful—literally and figuratively.

I was in eighth or ninth grade and told my mom I was “camping out” with friends. That phrase was teenage code for smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, maybe a little weed, and roaming around town trying to avoid the cops.

Later that night, after the usual mischief, we built a fire and settled in behind my friend Mark’s house on Cedar Grove Road, near the Little Cahaba. I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell into a deep sleep, thanks to the beer and pot. I had a terrifying dream: I was alone in the ocean, drowning, unable to swim.

Then I woke up—and I was drowning.

Some of the neighborhood bullies had found us, picked me up—sleeping bag and all—and thrown me into the creek. The soaked bag dragged me under.

My friend Mike jumped in and pulled me out, then immediately turned on the ringleader. The two had what we’d now call a "throwdown" on the creek bank.

I spent the rest of that night wet, cold, and miserable, waiting for the haze to wear off so I could go home. Time moves slowly when you're shivering and ashamed.

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People often ask why I didn’t fight back. Truth is, I was a sickly kid.

At age twelve, I was diagnosed with a rare neurological condition called Huntington’s Chorea—also known as St. Vitus Dance. At the time, I was one of only two known cases in Alabama. It affected my coordination and fine motor skills. I spent three months in Children’s Hospital and came home just after Christmas.

There wasn’t much I could do with my hands for a while. My dad bought me a Vox guitar and hired Steve Keith to teach me, hoping music might help. I never quite got the hang of it. Later, I turned to drums, and that did the trick. I played in the Leeds High School Marching Band for five years, right up until graduation in 1973.

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There were other moments—more fights, more chases, more quiet betrayals—but those three left the deepest marks.

Still, for all the pain, I grew stronger. And I never stopped hoping for real friendships, even in a world where trust could vanish in a single afternoon.